


Of Winchesters and Wombats

by philomel



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Tattoos, slight roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben brainstorms a new monster and bares his inner Deangirl.</p><p> </p><p> <span class="small">Set prior to season 8.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Winchesters and Wombats

"Werebats."

Leaning against the doorjamb with a brand new script — the first script of the season — cradled in the crook of his arm, Jensen waits for Ben to explain himself. As if anything could explain Ben Edlund. 

The office is quiet with everyone out for lunch. Everyone except Ben, who's scribbling all over the white board with increasingly cracked out story ideas and the random illustration of a monster. Jensen watches as Ben flicks short strokes of marker into an oblong shape, rounded at the edges. It resembles a furry parcel. Finishing with two curved triangles — tusks, Jensen thinks, or, no, _fangs_ — Ben taps the bottom of the marker under the fresh drawing and turns to Jensen, says, "A man who turns into a bloodthirsty wombat. Werebat." Ben tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and looks at Jensen like it's his turn to talk now.

All Jensen offers is a punched out _huh._ He doesn't know if Ben is joking, never truly does. Chances are, he's probably serious. This is Ben, after all.

Punctuating the air with little jabs of the marker, Ben quickly returns to the board and taps two dots over the fangs. Eyes, obviously. He looks back at Jensen, eyebrows pushing crinkles into his forehead, as if _that_ was what the drawing was missing and surely Jensen gets the concept now. 

Exhaling slowly, trying to stave off the smirk that's twitching at the corner of his mouth, Jensen walks into the room, tosses his script onto the conference table and joins Ben at the white board. "Werebat," he echoes.

"Yeah." Ben's nodding enthusiastically. Like a little kid, Jensen thinks. Like Jared. Same difference. "See." The marker squeaks as Ben adds a simple circle over the fangy wombat. "It changes when there's a new moon. Not a full moon." He waggles the marker in Jensen's face. "Because wombats are from the southern hemisphere."

"Right," Jensen says.

"You know," Ben keeps going. "Like the water drains in the opposite direction. It's a myth, right? The Coriolis force can’t possibly apply to something that small. But. So. The werebat changes according to a cycle _contrary_ to that of the werewolf. Which is much more northern hemisphere in origin. Obviously."

"Obviously." Ben has a tendency to do this to Jensen — leave him speechless, capable of little more than parroting. This time he manages one additional comment, brain cells rejuvenated after the three months' break. "So, Sam and Dean go hunting at the zoo?"

Ben's face lights up. "Yes! Lots of snark from you for having to investigate a zoo. And then, oh, I mean, it's—" A strand of hair falls over Ben's eyes, and he stops to push it back. "It's total fan service, with all the cute, cuddly animals." Ben's shoulders hunch up as he says this, voice pitching a notch higher in mock cuteness, and Jensen smiles, caught up in Ben's animated gestures. "But, yeah," Ben continues. "Dean jokes about the animals being responsible for the zookeepers’ deaths. Like, ‘Did the toucan do it? Was it an actual man-eating lion? Or a possessed tortoise? Do they have a caged chupacabra?’ You know? He pretty much gets off on ridiculing the animals during the case. Well, not _gets off_ , because that would be... another show entirely. But it's so ridiculous. Cryptozoology at the zoo. Go figure. And then Dean—"

"Dean makes fun of the wombat," Jensen suggests.

"Werebat," Ben corrects. "Because it just waddles around. Like some kind of fur-covered footstool. An ambulatory ottoman." More grayed-dark curls come loose, covering Ben's face as he ducks his head, grinning at the images coming from his own twisted brain. Jensen reaches out, brushes them back. It's reflexive, really — something he does for Jared automatically now. Long hair having a mind of its own. Ben stills, and Jensen forgets to move his hand back even as realization catches up with him. Ben's hair feels softer than he'd expected — had he many expectations about Ben's hair at all — given the oil slick shade of it, still predominant despite the silver threads that seem to double in number each time Jensen sees Ben. It's silky, however, a little sticky with product, but no worse than Jensen's own hair. It slips around Jensen's fingers as he attempts to sweep it over Ben's temple.

"So, uh." Quieter than before, Ben tries to pick up where he left off. 

Ben's a hard one to derail, and Jensen might feel a sense of accomplishment if he wasn't shocked by his own actions. He jerks his hand away, stuffing it into his back pocket and averting his eyes. An apology scarcely forms on his lips when Ben cuts him off.

"So I see Dean being relentless with the wombat, who's really a werebat, though Dean doesn't know it yet. And it sparks ire in the little furry guy. And it seems to glare at Dean. Unlike a normal animal's eyes, almost human but not even that. I'm thinking we could do a little trick with CG there. Nothing too crazy."

Jensen laughs despite himself. No, nothing too crazy at all. He licks at his bottom lip, a little nervous that the laughter might seem judgmental when, honestly, Ben's nothing but—

Staring at Jensen's mouth. In a way that seems undeniably predatory.

Jensen wets his lips again, a self-conscious tic. 

Ben's gaze flicks back to the white board.

Scrambling to fill the silence, Jensen says, "Dean gets to him, huh? And unknowingly makes himself the next target?"

"Mmm." Ben's filling out the werebat's eyes, stripes raying out from the pupils, making it appear manic.

"And that's a whole show? A full 40 minutes of wombat terror?" Jensen can't help teasing, he really can't.

There's a breathy snort, then Ben drops the marker. "No," he says, crouching to pick it up. "I think it will be a distraction. A distraction from what Cas is up to." His face turns up toward Jensen, hair coming loose again, wild tendrils falling over both eyes. It's the first thing that gets Jensen's attention. The second being Ben's proximity to Jensen's crotch. Ben appears to be aware of it too — hyper aware, the way he steals quick glimpses before meeting Jensen's eyes briefly, awkwardly incapable of settling on either view for more than a second or two. He starts to get up, says, "Oh." He's looking at the marker, fingertips scrabbling over it, when he loses his balance. The marker goes rolling. Jensen grabs at Ben's arm to catch him. It's too late. Ben lands on his ass, Jensen on his knees in front of him. 

Ben starts laughing immediately, more of a giggle, face scrunched up and shoulders shaking. He falls forward, forearms hooking over his knees with his legs spread wide, heels dug into the carpeting. 

"You okay?" Jensen asks. But it's barely intelligible through his own laughter. His smile stretches so wide his face hurts.

Ben nods, squinting at Jensen through his mop of hair, face pink and eyes bright. It's endearing. He's all craziness and charm. Jensen finds himself shuffling closer until his stomach brushes against Ben's hands. His skin jumps at the contact, and he sits back on his heels, leaving a few inches between them, uncertain. Ben's head cocks to the side and Jensen loses sight of his eyes, now completely shadowed. But then Ben's long fingers stretch toward Jensen. He hesitates, then flattens his palm over Jensen's abdomen. His thumb tugs at Jensen's t-shirt, drawing up the hem. It tickles. Jensen bites his lip as Ben's thumb touches bare skin. He tracks the circular motion of Ben thumb on his skin, the tendon standing out, the thin lines of bone and thicker rivulets of veins on his hands. The pivoting of Ben's wrist distracts him, beaded bracelet rolling against an immobile leather cuff, both dark, a sharp contrast against his pale skin.

"Dean should've been tattooed here," Ben says, almost to himself. "Maybe not the pentangle, but another one. Maybe here." His fingers graze over Jensen's hip, a light touch, still tentative. Hooking his thumb into Jensen's belt, he traces patterns, dipping into the crease, then up over Jensen's hipbone and back around to his stomach. 

"What— what kind?" Jensen says, pulling up his shirt to see what Ben's outlining. "Hoodoo or something?" He finds himself incapable of saying _hoodoo_ in his own voice. Instead, he enunciates it in Dean's scoffing tone. 

Ben's lips quirk, as if he caught Jensen's character bleed. He lowers his legs, splays his free hand high on Jensen's thigh. 

Jensen risks disrupting Ben to comb his fingers through Ben's hair, holding his thumb there to keep it out of his eyes, stroking at the hairline. It's the way Dean might treat a girl, that gentle reverence.

Ben pushes into Jensen's touch like a cat. "Something rock and roll," Ben says finally. "Heavy metal. A skull. Roses. No." He interrupts himself. "Flames?" Narrowing his eyes, he drags his fingernails up, drawing them together as if they're meeting into points of fire. "Classic tattoos. Dean likes the classics." 

"Pinup girl?" Jensen says, as Ben scratches back down his stomach. "Busty, Asian?" The leer is all Dean.

Shifting closer, Ben takes Jensen's other arm, twisting it to expose the inside. Below the inner elbow, he forms what appears to be a heart, crosses straight down the middle. "Sacred heart," he says. "Or here." Pushing up under Jensen's sleeve, his own tattooed hand disappearing beneath the fabric, he repeats the same shape on Jensen's bicep.

Jensen's fingers slip around to the back of Ben's neck, threading through the damp curls to uncoil them. "Not my baby?" he teases, giving in to Dean's low purr, tomcat-rough. He presses the pads of his fingers to warm flesh, rubbing over the notches of Ben's spine and urging him forward. 

Ben's eyes stay fixed on Jensen's body, but he goes willingly. Both hands slide beneath the front of Jensen's shirt and he says, "Here." Tapping at the swell of Jensen's chest, just to the side of his breastbone. "Dean would have the Impala right here." Jensen watches the shape of Ben's hands under the thin cotton. "If, if you didn't have the anti-possession symbol right there," Ben continues, seemingly oblivious to Jensen's stare. "You'd have her."

"Ben," Jensen says, leaning in. He tries not to think of how it's the same name as Lisa's boy. 

"She'd be black and gray, of course. Highly detailed." Ben strokes and strokes along Jensen's chest. 

Jensen can picture every detail through Ben's eyes. Dean would love it. Moving in closer, his nose bumps against Ben's cheek. He blinks too fast. His breath comes quick. "Ben."

"Wisps," Ben keeps going. "Like smoke, all around her, to indicate movement. Like she's kicking up the road behind her. And." Ben's eyes close as Jensen's open mouth ghosts over the side of his face, all heat and invitation. "And you'd be impossible. Hovering—" He swallows. "Hovering over the artist, making sure he gets everything perfect, exactly the way you want it." 

"A total pain in the ass," Jensen says against Ben's lips.

"Incorrigible." Ben's mouth curves up, eyes falling shut.

Tilting his head, Jensen smiles into the kiss, hushing Ben before he can say another word.

Outside there's a rustle and a jangle of keys, then the slamming of a door that rattles through the walls. Jensen and Ben jump back just as the smell of fried food wafts down the hall, followed by the sound of everyone coming back from lunch. 

They're both up and on their feet, avoiding each other's eyes, backs to the door. Ben's scratching at the back of his neck and Jensen's fumbling for his script when the other Bens come shuffling in, Sera behind them, then Bob. He attempts to look casual as he holds the pages in front of his pants, hopes they think he's just gotten too much sun and that that's why his face is red when he greets them. 

Ben's out the door, muttering about the bathroom. And Jensen wonders for a moment how suspicious it would be if he excused himself to use the bathroom too. 

They wouldn’t have to know he was using the same one.

And anyway, as far as Jensen is concerned, Dean's no stranger to fooling around in restrooms. Only, dirtier ones, in dive bars. It's his personal canon. Maybe it's Ben's too.

**Author's Note:**

> • I wrote this a year and a half ago for a Blindfold prompt, putting off posting it in the hopes that I could write a sequel per a request from sychononny. However, at this point, I don’t see myself being able to get any more out of this little story. So, here it is, as is.
> 
>  
> 
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> 
> • Originally posted [here](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/4508.html?thread=6133148#t6133148) as part of [](http://blindfold_spn.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://blindfold_spn.livejournal.com/)**blindfold_spn**.  
> 


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